By e. e. cummings
The writer starts his "nonlectures" with the caution "I have not the remotest purpose of posing as a lecturer." Then, at periods, he proceeds to convey the following:
1. i & my parents
2. i & their son
3. i & selfdiscovery
4. i & you & is
5. i & now & him
6. i & am & santa claus
These talks include decisions from the poetry of Wordsworth, Donne, Shakespeare, Dante, and others, together with e.e. cummings. jointly, it types a very good advent to the paintings of e.e. cummings.
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Additional info for i--six nonlectures (The Charles Eliot Norton Lectures)
I see" said my friend grimly. " "Sounds a trifle difficult" my friend hazarded. "Don't be silly" the oracle admonished. " "I get you" said my disillusioned friend. " So ends the second anecdote. You may believe it or not, as you wish. As far as I'm concerned, it's the unbelievable-but also unquestionable-selfportrait of a one hundred and one percent pseudoworld: in which truth has become televisionary, in which goodness means not hurting people, and in which beauty is shoppe. Just (or unjust) how any species of authentic individualism could stem from such a collective quagmire, I don't-as always-know; but here are four lines of a poem which didn't: (While you and i have lips and voices which are for kissing and to sing with who cares if some oneeyed son of a bitch invents an instrument to measure Spring with?
My own home faced the Cambridge world as a finely and solidly constructed mansion, preceded by a large oval lawn and ringed with an imposing white-pine hedge. Just in front of the house itself stood two huge appletrees; and faithfully, every spring, these giants lifted their worlds of fragrance toward the room where I breathed and dreamed. Under one window of this room flourished (in early summer) a garden of magnificent 24 roses: the gift of my parents' dear friend "stubby" Child-who (I learned later) baptized me and who (I still later discovered) was the Child of English And Scottish Ballads.
What could induce anyone to desire aloneness, when billions of soi-disant dollars are mercifully squandered by a good and great government lest anyone anywhere should ever for a single instant be alone? As for being yourselfwhy on earth should you be yourself; when instead of being yourself you can be a hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand thousand, other people? The very thought of being 23 oneself in an epoch of interchangeable selves must appear supremely ridiculous. Fine and dandy: but, so far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was and is and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.